


Don't Tell Me Turtles Don't Laugh

by rispacooper



Category: due South
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Dress Up, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Realization, Roleplay, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a challenge/dare with pir8fancier. Conditions of the challenge: Uniform kink. Ray putting on Fraser’s uniform without Fraser’s knowledge. Masturbation. (With Fraser finding out entirely the author’s choice). Porn. She had to write the opposite in her story Uniform Setting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Me Turtles Don't Laugh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pir8fancier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pir8fancier/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Uniform Setting](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2905) by pir8fancier. 



> This story is so old. *cringe*

_That._

Ray twitched and glared, at the TV, at the crazy moving shadows where the wall met the ceiling, at the turtle even, in case, you know, the turtle had seen him jump and was laughing at him. Which was dumb, and no, he didn’t need any calm voice in his head to remind him that _turtles don’t laugh, Ray,_ which he so knew, but there the voice was anyway. Just in his head, he knew that too no matter how long he’d been alone and sitting here, just in his head because there was definitely no one else around who might have been the kind of person to say that sort of thing.

And what kind of person said that sort of thing to another person anyway? A weirdo, that’s who. And if that’s what Welsh thought him sitting home alone for a week was going to teach him, then Welsh was short of couple of really loose screws, because even someone as dense as Dewey got that. This did not take a week to figure out. This took…seconds… And no, Ray didn’t know how many seconds there were in a week even if some other kind of person might know for sure, but he knew he was going to find out. He could already feel each one, each tick of the fucking clock creeping along his skin like some kind of spider, only his hands were tied up or something, and all he could do was move and roll his shoulders and that didn’t _do_ anything except make the itch worse, and it was all because of…

That.

There. Sitting there neat as nothing on a chair, folded and square and staring at him. And even if Fraser wasn’t there, he _was_ there, fire engine red and dumb blue-and-yellow pants, bits of shiny leather that hadn’t been so shiny a few days ago and if they thought it was his fault then they could all go suck a great, big, fat one. He hadn’t made Fraser go chasing after him. That one was all on Fraser. And what did he think, that Ray was going to go chasing after him now?

None of his business if Fraser wanted to go play Wild Man of the Yukon by himself for a few weeks. Absolutely none of his business. Absfuckinglutely. Because who was Ray after all, just his partner. Just his goddamn partner. Or, okay, fine, just the guy _pretending_ to be his goddamn partner. Why should Fraser care if he leaves Ray all alone down at the station with everybody—and Frannie—glaring at him like he was the one that sent Fraser packing? Wasn’t like he told Fraser to go. Fraser heading north and the mud thing…total coincidence.

Ray cracked the bones along his spine, and felt the cotton of his t-shirt sticking, just a little, to the sweat at his back. He shifted, slightly, then spread his fingers out over the remote before pushing it away. He tapped out the Campbell’s chicken soup jingle with his other hand then sighed.

If Fraser had been there, his glare wouldn’t have had any effect, he knew that, not against that fake-dumb thing Fraser did. Whatever the word for it was, it looked about the same on the Mountie as it did on some stupid hood. But he glared anyway, ignoring the Channel 4 weather guy going on about warming trends just so he could keep on scowling at the neat pile of Fraser’s dress uniform. His mom’s—Ma Vecchio’s that was—note was still on top, just how he’d found it yesterday, coming home from a trip to the store. His third trip to the store in two days, and Ray knew stir crazy when he saw it even if Welsh was somehow blind as a bat.  
 _  
“Ray,”_ it said, and even knowing he owed her for knowing what the hell to do with a suit of red serge covered in dried mud, Ray had to fight not to snap when he’d picked up the suit from her and seen that she’d still written a note in order to guilt him. Which was such a mom thing to do. _“If Benton needs help with his laundry, he can just leave it with yours._ The guilt from mothers was like one of those universal equalizing things. And even figuring that his “mom” got way too much enjoyment out of washing socks, the whole thing made no sense. _Fraser_ could probably give _her_ ironing tips. Fraser probably even knew what the hell to do with starch, or what the hell it was chemically, exactly. Starch was probably Fraser’s middle name. Benton Starch Fraser. That explained why he was always standing straight no matter what, like some great big tree up in Canada somewhere got shoved up his tight ass. Tall, and strong, and hands behind his back or even bent a little to twist his hat around in his hands didn’t do nothing to disguise the set of his shoulders.

It was like…yeah…something about _breadth_ that Frannie had said once. Like a whatdoyoucallit… _pillar_ that could hold up just about anything. Except it couldn’t, he couldn’t, Ray should’ve guessed that, which is probably why Fraser had just out of nowhere decided to take a _vacation_.

Vacation. Like Fraser even knew what that was. Ten to one, Fraser wasn’t going to be lying on a beach in some short-shorts, rubbing lotion all over some naked, willing blonde’s body.

Ray exhaled loudly, shifting so that both of his feet rested on the floor. He scuffed the soles of his feet on the carpet and shook his head to banish the weird image of Fraser in cut-offs like Daisy Duke and nothing else. Daisy Dukes were for girls. Not for Fraser. Uniform. Fraser was a uniform guy. Fact, indes…indis…acknowledged fucking fact.

Except, well not now. But Fraser probably had a spare waiting for him up north. Probably wore one underneath the other just in case, like Superman hiding that ‘S’.

Just when things were getting interesting. Just when they were getting so close on that last case, creeping through the backdoor of that dingy bar, Fraser so tight at his back that Ray had heard him inhale through his nose, felt warm air stir the hair at the back of his neck even. Sniffing something. Ray’d smelled peanuts and booze and maybe some old piss, which smelled like any other bar to him, but probably smelled like some special kind of rare Antarctica peanuts or something to Fraser. Probably wanted to lick the walls to tell just what brand of beer they’d been drinking from the taste of their piss.

Ray wrinkled his nose, swallowing hard the urge to be sick, because he could just see Fraser forgetting the suspect and dropping down to his knees and sticking out his tongue to taste the freaking _wall_ with Ray standing right there. But the urine on the walls must not have smelled that weird even to Fraser, because he hadn’t gone to his knees or opened his mouth or done anything else like that. He’d just stopped, practically on Ray’s ass.

There’d been a crowd, and a loud one, but they hadn’t been able to see why until they’d reached the swinging doors that closed off the storeroom from the customers.

Ray smoothed one hand down his thigh and grinned, not wiping it from his face because Fraser wasn’t there to look at him like some kind of pissy librarian.

He ought to head back to that place. Maybe with all the excitement the first time nobody there’d recognize his face.

“Oh my.” Fraser’s whisper had been warm in his ear, electric, shocked for maybe all of a second before that librarian had come out, saying something about hearing stories of such practices, and something similar involving oil and _”no holds barred competition”_ and _”quite exhilarating”_. Which had almost made Ray turn around to ask him, “What the _fuck_ , Fraser?” except he was used to Fraser standing close and saying kinky shit like that right into his ear. Right into his ear so it could slip right into his brain and drive him crazy later when he was too tired to not think about it—Fraser, oiled up and rolling around in a cage somewhere, what the fuck?—and because there was no way Ray had been going to take his eyes off the two babes…fighting…wrestling…rubbing each other to death in the ring in the middle of the room. In bikinis. There had definitely been bikinis somewhere under all that mud.

The guys around them were screaming, egging them on, like those girls had needed encouragement. There had been this brunette—or at least from what Ray had seen through all the gooey mud she’d had brown hair—and it didn’t matter that she and the other chick were about the same size, she’d had her pinned down good. Holding the scrawny blonde down with her hands and her knees, slick thighs spread to hold her there, her arms bending as she’d pushed forward, down, her hips moving like she was restless and waiting for more.

And yeah, he’d show her more. And just like that as he’d been thinking it and licking the drool off his lips the blonde one had managed to squirm away and flip them both over.

So maybe he’d said “Huh…what?” or maybe just grunted instead of responding to whatever it was Fraser had actually been saying to him there, which was probably his name; over and over Fraser would say his name, like Ray was going to be able to forget him, breathing heavy at his back. Or maybe the grunt that had been from the way Fraser had accidentally stepped on the back of his shoe, pushing forward like Ray’d been going to move anywhere. He could’ve died dead from a stroke, a gunshot, been struck by freaking lightening right there on that spot—which was possible around Fraser, Ray was pretty sure. Even with Fraser’s weight almost on his back, with Fraser _panting_ behind him, still talking with his voice scratched and rough when Ray hadn’t said anything, so low that Ray could have been dreaming it except that he could feel Fraser’s lips graze his ear sometimes, with all of that, he wouldn’t have minded. He would have died one happy son of a bitch.

Because, oh yeah, mud and lots of it. Fraser breathing hard and mud. On women. On almost-naked women. Only like special, slippery mud that sort of…yeah…got shiny… _gleamed_ , yeah, in the dim, dusty light. He remembered it being so heavy it had flattened Fraser’s uniform, made it stick to every inch of Fraser, like all of the sudden red serge was as thin and flimsy as those bikinis. Streaked across Fraser’s face, like finger prints, that maybe had belonged to Ray, with Fraser just looking over at him instead of at the suspect struggling at the end of Fraser’s arm.

Probably trying not to laugh, which was more than he could say for the Duck Twins when he and Fraser’d crawled back to the station, one suspect and two very hot but very pissed-off mud-wrestling babes in cuffs behind them. _”Assaulting an officer”_ , and man, had Dewey’s eyes lit up at that.

Because right then, of course right then, standing together in the shadows with Fraser’s hand on his arm, like Fraser didn’t notice him breathing heavy and staring at dirty, full tits in wet, straining fabric, Fraser had sucked in a breath, loud and long. And then Ray had jerked, because suddenly Fraser had been far away, pulling back and clearing his throat and mentioning that oh yes, had he forgotten to tell Ray that he had requested a few weeks off for a brief return visit home, and wasn’t that their suspect across the room with the beer in his hand?

Ray closed the hand on his leg into a fist and lifted his chin. If his eyebrows were up and he was asking a pile of clothes a question with his eyes like it was going to answer, then it didn’t matter since he would have gotten the same thing from Fraser anyway. Which was nothing. Just quiet and normal and fine and peachy until Fraser’d gone home and the next day, split. Hadn’t even stopped for the red clown suit, still at the precinct. Which just proved that, goddamnit, the uniform don’t make the Mountie. Or the man. Or whatever.

Fraser was probably jumping off buildings in Canada without it all by himself, leaping tall buildings in front of speeding bullets and lying on top of moving cars and the only thing he’d thought to take with him was that stupid hat. And here Ray was, stuck at home on leave for being a…det…detri…a pain in the ass to the precinct with his current attitude, with the suggestion from Welsh that he get his head out of his ass before the Mountie came back.

Which just proved that they all thought Fraser’s skedaddle was his fault.

But that mud, it wasn’t like normal mud. He’d barely been able to stand half the time, and he sure as hell hadn’t been able to see anything once he’d gotten a face full of the stuff. How had he been supposed to guess that he’d been wrestling Fraser in that pile of goop? And anyway, Fraser had said he was leaving even before Ray’d ended up on his back. On his back, working, trying to do his duty and chase down a suspect, which had somehow become him trying to push off what had turned out to be Fraser’s weight, but really just squirming and slipping and sliding against Fraser in about every direction but out from underneath Fraser like he’d wanted.

Fraser was heavy. Full. But not so heavy that Ray couldn’t breathe, under him there, which was funny, because Ray’d been seeing stars he’d been so out of breath.

Ray wiped furiously at his face as though there was still some mud on him and shook his head. He pushed himself to his feet and then stood there for a moment while his t-shirt settled at his waist, not really knowing where he planned on going now that he was up. There was no way he was going back the store and he didn’t have to pee and he wasn’t hungry.

He ought to just drop the suit off at the Consulate, maybe just pop by and wait for Turnbull to say something about when Fraser was expected back. Could be a long wait, but it wasn’t like Ray had anything else to do except stare at the walls some more. Then he realized that he must really be bored, because this was _Turnbull_ he was thinking about visiting. One red suit do not equal all red suits. Which sounded like something Fraser would say, Ray decided, one of his…logical statements. Yeah.

Turnbull did not equal Fraser. Which was pretty freaking obvious, but Ray thought about it a little more, stretching with his arms high above his head. Turnbull was a nice kid, but he wasn’t like, Fraser-nice. And he definitely wasn’t Fraser-smart, even if he just might be Fraser-crazy. Same red, same puffy pants, same hat, same... Ray paused while the name slipped from his tongue and then came back…Sam Browne, but he definitely was not Fraser.

Fraser looked like he’d been born in that uniform, always buttoned all the way up no matter if Thatcher wasn’t there and it was just him and Ray, sitting around. Sometimes he’d play with his collar, looking down and flicking his fingers across the tabs, like he was thinking about taking it off, but his hands would always fall back to his side no matter how many times Ray thought he might be about to actually do it.

Damn thing looked heavy, and hot. Ray’s glare this time was just for the serge and not for the Mountie who was supposed to be in it.

It wasn’t like Fraser slept in it. Oh no, for that Fraser had long johns that looked about as comfortable. Red too. Like those assholes up in Canada weren’t about to let him forget his place no matter what. Sleep or no sleep.

But Fraser must like it, or he wouldn’t kept on Mountying all these years. He must freaking love it.

Only he’d left it behind. Forgotten down at the precinct with Ray like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

Ray stepped out from in front of the couch, passing by the chair as gave up and went to get a beer anyway, even if he didn’t want one. His jeans almost brushed one midnight-blue corner of the pants, not that it mattered.

The beer was cold, and Ray drank it in about three gulps, burping while he stood at the counter, considering excusing himself as he would have had to if Fraser—or his mom—had been there. But seeing as how he’d been completely and totally ditched, he just let one fly again. Louder.

He _did_ brush the pants again on his way back, felt them dragging softly against his jeans as he tried to slip past. He also tried to ignore the rushing waterfall sound of all of Fraser’s neatly folded clothes falling on the floor, for about a full minute he came really close too, just standing there with his back to it and thinking about bikinis, and mud, and Daisy Dukes, and a sunny beach somewhere and…and maybe getting another beer.

If he left it there until Fraser came back, it would serve Fraser right. Of course, then he’d had to imagine Fraser’s shock—and probably though he wouldn’t say anything—hurt, that Ray had left it there, and he had to swear.

He did that loud too, when he turned and bent to pick it all up. It was always surprising just how not-itchy the serge was. He always thought it would be, the times when he was about to touch Fraser without it, you know, being a punch or a kick or maybe just a little shove to get Fraser out of his space, but like an actual hold on Fraser’s arm or something. He always thought it would scratch, and it was always almost-but-not-really- _soft_ against his palms, well-worn, woven well. Whatever Fraser would say. Heavy though, like he’d thought before.

Ray held the pile in his hands for a moment, suspenders hanging from one side; the white lanyard in a little bundle in the middle, along with the decorations, like his mom hadn’t known what to do with them. Ray didn’t even know what to do with them, and settled for picking them up gently and sticking them back on the chair.

The uniform he kept in his hands, all of Fraser’s uniform, minus the white Henley that Fraser had been wearing underneath it at the time. That was with Fraser, wherever he was. Ma Vecchio had buttoned the coat back up almost to the collar, he noticed, turning it slightly until one suspender buckle lost its hold and slid free. It smacked hard against his hand before dropping to the floor.

“Goddam…” Ray swallowed mid-curse and bit his lip to hold in his little howl, which was _not_ from pain, just annoyance at the stupid crap and _accessories_ that certain Mounties had left with him before running back to the Arctic Circle. Dumbass suspenders to hold up dumbass baggy pants. Only they weren’t really baggy. They were actually pretty tight, almost skin-tight on Fraser’s legs, on his thighs, all the way up until Fraser’s hips, when they puffed out like Fraser was either going to the saddle club or heading down to some leather bar for some other kind of riding.

Which Fraser would not do.

Ray shut his eyes and turned his head like maybe Fraser’s clothes were Fraser and were going to give him the Stare of Death for thinking something so inappropriate while holding the Uniform.

The _Uniform_ , Ray. He could almost hear Fraser saying it. Could almost see the wide eyes and serious face. Except that it was all in his head, because Fraser was gone. Which Ray considered for thirty seconds or so, drumming his fingers noiselessly against the sleek fabric of Fraser’s pants. His _breeches_.

Ray almost made a face at the name, but stopped himself, holding his fingers still too. The coat was all old-fashioned but Fraser’s pants were made of something different. Something stretchy like those soft, tight pants that Stella had worn when she’d decided to work out to lose weight she hadn’t needed to lose. Not that Ray’d said anything, because watching Stella get sweaty in nothing but pink spandex was a freaking fantastic way to spend an hour. _Up. Down. In. Out._ Yeah. And if he caught her right, he could reach out to get a palmful of Stella, her muscles hot and shaking, his fingers playing with that line where Lycra turned into soft skin, then sometimes she’d said to hell with her tapes and let Ray pull her down. To the couch. To the floor. _Up. Down. In. Out._

Those girls had looked like they worked out too, even in bikinis. Strong thighs, like maybe if they were wearing stretchy blue pants, he’d still be able to see every curve, every flex, could even feel them on the sides of his legs as he was pinned down, not really hiding the way they were humming, the way they rubbed when they didn’t have to, because it wasn’t like he was fighting anymore.

No. Maybe. Maybe just to lift his head up, searching for them in the dim, dusty light his dick fucking throbbing in his pants louder than even his heart, skipping beats and rolling like thunder in his ears. And him squirming and wriggling until mud worked inside his jeans, under his belt, warm and sticky, his t-shirt pushed up so he could feel the scratch of serge on his navel, like a cat’s tongue.

Ray blinked, staring at the coat, still just laying there in his hands, brushing against his stomach a little he was breathing so hard. He sprang to his feet, then stood there like an idiot, because he was still holding the Uniform. And now he sounded like Fraser even in his head.

Only the fucking Mounties would pick a fabric for their outfits that felt like… _that_. Like slow-moving careful hands, and how in the hell were they supposed to think about duty all the time when _that_ was on them?

Fraser’d been shivering as he’d taken off the coat, turned away, and Ray’d been undressing on the opposite side of bathroom and he’d still stopped to wonder how Fraser could be cold, wearing a long-sleeved, buttoned-up shirt underneath all of that. Then he’d just stared, because even though it had covered every inch of Fraser from his neck to his wrists, it hadn’t been thick, not from the way his nipples had been standing at attention, saluting the freaking _Queen_ beneath that Henley.

Ray dropped the clothes back onto the chair and ran his hands through his hair. So it was probably just some sort of Mountie test, wearing that coat all day long but putting something between you and it. Or not, and Fraser just wasn’t human. It wasn’t like Ray hadn’t had that thought before. Hell, Vecchio had probably thought it too.

Only Fraser’s hand had felt human, gripping tight on Ray’s arm like he’d thought Ray was going to jump right into the mud with the girls, pull him down, or maybe just away. Like Fraser hadn’t been the one to jump right into the mud a minute later, going after the suspect or not.

Stir-crazy. He was going crazy cooped up in here with just the coat and the turtle. Soon he was going to be talking to one of them, and so far the turtle hadn’t seemed too interested. And it was only a step from that to putting it on. And yeah, that’d be real funny, Detective Ray Kowalski to Detective Ray Vecchio to Constable Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P. And if he didn’t look like a big-nosed, big-mouthed Italian in ugly suits, then there was no way he could pull off broad-shouldered, stupid-reckless Canadian. Putting on that innocent look with that face, like he didn’t know what he was doing.

He could just imagine the jokes even if it probably wasn’t a million kinds of illegal, pretending to be a Mountie, sil…sully…dirtying up the outfit. That red coat would be hanging off his skinny ass, and there was no way any red-blooded American guy was going to wear those pants. This was Chicago, not the freaking Ice Capades.

And yeah, he was—whatever Fraser called it—the Uniform now. _Disrespecting_. And what was Fraser going to do about it? Nothing. If the guy really cared, he wouldn’t have left it behind to be disrespected. Ray could just leave it on the floor if he wanted. Sit on it while he watched the game. And if he wanted to slip the coat on, so what? It would serve Fraser right if he did, and he could come back and put his nose right there against the collar and breathe in and know that Ray had decided to play Dudley Do-Right, that Ray had been the one holding down the fort while was gone, that Ray could wear his buttons done all the way to the top and do dumbass things to save the day, and be handsome and smart and polite like he wasn’t shivering underneath all the wool and…

“Fuck it.”

Ray snatched the coat back up with a snarl, glaring at it for a moment while beer and no steady supply of air made his head spin, his blood warm. Glaring at it, but thinking, that yeah, he still had on the white t-shirt he’d worn to bed last night. It would do. It wasn’t like he had to do this regulation.

His thumb found a button. Heavy, cold brass. So shiny the light bounced off it, and if he were Fraser, he would have bent his head and stuck out his tongue. And just like that he was bending down, pulling the coat up, opening his mouth just enough to have the taste of metal against his teeth. And oh yeah, he was going crazy here.

His thumb pushed the button from its hole and then moved on to another one, until the red was wide open, like parted lips. And he was never going to buy this brand of beer again, just for making him think that.

Then the coat was open, there was nothing for it but to flip it around, slide it across his shoulders and there was no way he could breathe, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He’d been holding it, that’s why it was warm. He knew that. It wasn’t magic. And the sleeves were too big, the shoulders too stiff. He straightened, and felt it settle, and Fraser wasn’t taller than him, but he was broader, and he could feel that now too, with the coat trying to swallow him, thick and still so freaking warm.

He put his arms down, and the cuffs went down almost over his hands. He lifted them up and they fell back, and no way was he going to roll them up, even if the fabric moved with him and he could have. This was Fraser’s coat. Fraser’s _Red Serge_. And Ray was wearing it.

His fingers went out and found buttons again, freezing there because the brass wasn’t as cold as it had been a minute ago. Like somehow it was a different coat now that Ray Kowalski had touched it. Which was dumb, but not as dumb as doing this in the first place, because Fraser was going to know because there was no way Ray could ask Ma Vecchio to clean it twice. Fraser was going to smell him on it; Fraser could probably taste him on it if he wanted. If Fraser was going to just stick his tongue out and lick that spot there, where the collar brushed the skin under Ray’s ear…

The coat was off him in a second flat, and Ray was staring down at it with big, round eyes, and trying not to gasp for air, and definitely not looking toward the door like somehow Fraser was going to be standing there and watching Ray try on his clothes. And, Holy Christ, what would he say if he was?

Ray took a deep breath, and then a really, seriously deep breath, holding it so long that his vision got dim and only then he let it out to suck in another one. He ran his tongue along his lower lip and lifted a hand. He scrubbed at his face with it for a moment, yanking at his hair, and then let his hand fall, tugging one earlobe briefly on the way down.

Which was… So he was bored and going a little crazy. Maybe it was the outfit after all. Maybe without it Fraser was a normal guy too. _Though you weren’t wearing it when the idea first occurred, Ray._ And if Fraser had actually been there to politely point that out, Ray might have told him to shut up. _Shut the fuck up, Fraser._ He was trying to think here.

Maybe thinking was wrong. Thinking was what Fraser did. Like Ray was supposed to pick up the slack for the crazy _and_ for the thinking. If he got to pick he was going with crazy. Probably halfway there already anyway.

He was cold. Ray’s shiver was strong enough that he looked up, through the shades out the windows. Warming trend, his ass. Fraser probably loved it, up there in the cold doing whatever the hell Fraser did when he wasn’t here, liasing down at the Consulate, bugging Ray, whispering all that kinky shit in his ear and being…whatever it was… _suggestive_ and then acting like he wasn’t.

Ray’s gaze went back to the coat, sort of crumpled where he’d tossed it. It still looked warm, clean and soft. Like a big towel right out of the dryer. And yeah, his face was heating because that was a stupid thought. But the only way that thing could have been hotter was if Fraser had been wearing it and then given it to Ray the way he would have if Ray had been some chick shivering at the cold. Proving that Fraser was crazy, because a guy put his _arms_ around a shivering girl, not his coat.

Ray shivered again, and he was reaching for that pile of red, glancing to the windows over his shoulder like someone could witness this, could report it down at the station, him running his hands over a goddamn coat, his heart hammering, his face burning hot.

Nobody was looking. Nobody cared if he froze with his arm halfway in one sleeve, looking down at his jeans. It wasn’t right. But there he was doing it anyway, deciding to ignore that little voice in his head that sounded a hell of a lot like Fraser these days. It was pretty quiet already, but he told it to shut up anyway and then twisted to find the other arm.

So yeah. Fraser’s coat. Not bad. Ought to have a look at himself, even if he didn’t have the hat and there was no way he was going to put on those pants. The mirror in the bathroom only showed to his waist. But he paused anyway, tapping his foot at the suspenders. At the…what the hell had Fraser called them at the station? Braces, that went with the pants. The breeches that he was not wearing. So…Fraser was not a belt man. And judging from things, he wasn’t a boxers guy in the winter either, just those long underwear. And if the weather really was warming up, he probably skipped those.

Ray swallowed, picking up the suspenders and not saying anything when the metal buckle slid down again and smacked his wrist. He still had his belt on, but he yanked that off with one hand, tossing it to the floor without taking his eyes from the elastic straps.

The coat was open, flapping against his chest when he lifted his arm, and Ray shook his head, rubbing his palm down his side for a minute, closing his eyes. Then his hand slipped to his back, attaching the big clasp to his jeans with hardly any noise at all. And he was doing it wrong, doing it backwards, but Ray was a backwards kind of guy, everybody knew that, so he left the coat on, and kept his eyes closed while he worked the straps over his shoulders and down to his stomach and felt like he was being belted in, his guts shaking like he was about to ride the Shockwave.

They weren’t that tight, not like the ones he wore sometimes, but he could feel them with each breath, feel Fraser’s suspenders, pushing against him, and his t-shirt was cotton, softer maybe than Fraser’s thermal underwear, but still thin, so each breath and each push was like someone rubbing across his skin. Rubbing soft or hard, it didn’t matter, not when it was constant like that, when there was always this ache to remind him.

Maybe it hadn’t been cold making Fraser antsy in that bathroom. Maybe every time Fraser leaped in front of cars, and guys with guns, and out of control baby carriages, maybe every time he threw—or caught—some creepo whackjob’s knife, maybe Fraser was getting off on that a little bit, and maybe in a different way than just in a doing his duty or saving the day kind of getting off.

No, no, no, no, _no_ a guy was not supposed to wonder if his partner was walking around secretly turned on every minute of the day and hiding it from him. Hiding it from him, and what kind of inhuman freak could feel this and act like it was nothing, could not do anything about it? Ray would have had one hand on his dick at all times, wanted to stick his hand under his shirt to touch skin already a little prickly and sore.

Ray pulled in a long breath, leaning his head to one side at the feeling of that. And this was so not normal, not buddies, but there wasn’t anybody here but him. Just him. He opened his eyes and looked down at himself.

The pants were wrong.

He was reaching before he could get his hand to knock it off, his fingers closing around the soft, stretchy material of Fraser’s breeches. If he’d had shoes on before they were gone now, and he didn’t even have time to curl his toes into the carpet, because he was moving, heading toward the bathroom with his other hand working at the suspender clips with his jeans falling down around his knees.

Fraser hadn’t done it like this; Fraser had moved slow and careful and kept himself turned away from Ray without acting like he was. Calm as all hell, but turned away, his back arching as he bent over to get at his boots. Shivering while Ray stripped to almost nothing—probably when the cold air touched his skin—before pulling on the extra pair of Mort’s scrubs and running out of the room, running off to Canada like maybe this fake partners thing wasn’t working out after all.

His skin must’ve been burning, because the chill in his bathroom was like getting hit with ice, raising bumps on his arms. Ray tripped over his jeans before he dumped them completely, leaving them in a pool at the door. Which he tripped over again a moment later, one leg in the air while he tried to get into Fraser’s pants.

Which, yeah, should have made him laugh, but he was breathing too heavy to even try, his thoughts catching like his big toe as he tried to get his leg in there and fix the fly without actually looking at what he was doing. Because of all things Ray had done in his life, this was possibly the most humiliating and weird outside of pissing himself in a bank in front of strangers.

The breeches felt cool, and when Ray fell against the door they smoothed up over his calf as easily as Stella’d rolled on pantyhose. And no, these _were not pantyhose_. Hell no. But they went on so slick, sneaky and quiet, like Fraser whispering in his ear, just there all of the sudden, and he was pulling up until suddenly they were at his waist and he could feel them bunching against his crotch. They were cool there too.

His fingers were creeping down to run over his legs, pushing cautiously at the stupid puffy parts, before running back up to find the suspender straps, clipping them into place again. Then he exhaled, cracking the bones in his neck and clearing his throat and doing all kinds of stuff that meant he maybe was nervous about looking in the mirror. Which was stupid, Ray reminded himself, because Fraser must do it every day.

It was only another step to the sink. One tiny, little step, and then he was staring back at himself. At himself wearing Fraser’s coat and suspenders and yeah, he couldn’t see the pants, but he could feel them, just like everything else.

 _Red._ It was like seeing Fraser for a second, just looking at the shoulders all done up in red, bits of yellow, pieces of leather. Except it wasn’t, and Ray scowled, playing with collar. It was still loose and undone, and his t-shirt looked too small with those suspenders there, making his nipples look like they were begging for a little T.L.C.

He licked at his lips as he remembered the buttons, picking up traces of metal that would be on his fingers now too, if he licked those when he was done. Nothing weird in that to Fraser. Fraser licked whatever the hell he wanted. No reason Ray couldn’t too. But seeing himself with the open coat and the suspenders in the mirror like that, he looked like some kind of Mountie beefcake calendar, except he wasn’t any kind of beefcake. Now, Fraser…Fraser would look just fine in one of those things.

Ray looked down quickly, watching himself work buttons through holes, and his fingers were not shaking, the buttons were just big and heavy. He had to lift his chin when he got to the collar, and looking up was definitely… _weird_.

“Yeah…” Ray sighed, tossing his head a little bit, cracking his neck, running his fingers across his eyebrows. Not even Fraser had a word for this.

He swallowed, and felt the collar tight at his throat, so he opened his mouth like maybe that would help him breathe, except that it didn’t, and he could see the uniform stretching over his chest when he tried. Stretching, because it fit, the goddamn thing fit.

The arms were long, and the shoulders stuck up like he was borrowing his dad’s one good jacket, and he wasn’t even going to try to wear the lanyard, and he had no boots on and no hat, but still, _not a bad fit, Ray_ Fraser might say. For a guy from the frozen wastes of Canada, Fraser’s voice could get warm enough to melt an igloo, sometimes.

“Well, thank you kindly, Fraser.” Grinning a bit, Ray turned a little to each side, trying to see his backside too. Not bad. If Fraser didn’t know him, he could’ve strolled right into the Consulate and pretended…

Ray’s smile slipped into a frown and he scowled at his reflection, ending that thought. He didn’t move at all for a second or two, considering, and then he lifted his hands, clawing through the spikes and then using his palms to smooth them all down, nice and flat, even.

His bangs were too long to have his hair like this. And the look didn’t match. It wasn’t _Fraser_. Quicker now, Ray finger-combed it all back, the way Stella had always kind of wanted him to wear it, slickly gelled down around and behind his ears, nothing pointing up and definitely nothing out of place.

His hands were sticky by the time he was done, but he stuck them at his sides like Fraser did around Thatcher, jerking his chin up real high and trying to look like he had a pole up his ass, just trying to think about whatever Fraser thought about while he looked like that, like he was silently _begging_ to be told what to do.

Fraser thoughts. Like duty, honor…oil wrestling.

His nipples were so damn tight. Peaked and hard just waiting for him to move again.

Ray choked on his own spit and coughed as he stood up. Straightening his shoulders wasn’t hard, but it made the suspenders pull across his chest, made them tug at the pants until everything was _snug_ and _way too close_. And thank God for boxers, boxers were a fucking miracle, because otherwise it would have just been him down there, and no amount of washing was going to make him think that Fraser wouldn’t know. That Fraser wasn’t going to be walking around everyday in these same pants, with these suspenders pulling him, touching him, rubbing in all the right ways to get him hot and knowing that they’d been on Ray too, touching him, rubbing…getting him hot. That was almost like Ray was helping turn him on there, like Fraser was thinking about him with his balls tingling and his dick half-hard and pounding in the dumb pants. And…

“Shit.” Ray put a hand to his package and then yanked it away, because, yeah, there was definite arousal going on here. Definite heat and pressure and _thoughts_ , and he was at half-mast already and working on more, and he couldn’t even see it through the bottom of the coat, and God, Fraser could be like this all the time and Ray would never have guessed. He could feel it now though, his dick aching, the serge almost stiff enough to push against.

And he was not thinking about Fraser here. And if he was, it was on account of the uniform being some sort of Canadian sexual torture _thing_ , and Fraser must have a hard-on every time he put this on, must’ve been ready to hammer nails through concrete with his cock every time he leaned in to whisper in Ray’s ear. He could have, and Ray wouldn’t have suspected a damn thing. If he had…Well if he had he would’ve told Fraser to go do something about it.

Which was something that Fraser maybe did. That maybe Fraser thought about all day, even when he was with Ray, and it was only the uniform keeping him from finding a dark corner somewhere and jerking away, but reminding him at the same time, teasing him like that, making the pressure build. The freaking friction making him hot like an engine, like he might combust at any second if he didn’t just reach out a little and just squeeze a little, right there, make it leak a little, smear his fingers until everything was running _smooth._

Ray looked up, eyes wide on his serious, smooth-haired, wannabe Mountie reflection, and he couldn’t stop himself from noticing his pink face, his clenched jaw, the hands that he couldn’t see anymore, dropped right out of view.

Fraser wouldn’t. Ray clenched his jaw harder, and swallowed. Fraser wouldn’t, but he would think about it. Was thinking about it, even when he was out with Ray. And when Frannie walked by swinging that ass he’d lick his lips and look away, and then he’d glance right back to Ray, clearing his throat like it wasn’t nothing. Because even if he didn’t like Frannie that’s a hot piece, and still Fraser would just shuffle and move and crack his freaking neck and if Ray did that now the uniform would shift again and it would be like putting a hand in an electrical outlet, like touching his tongue to a sparking socket and, yeah. That’s exactly what Fraser would do.

Ray jerked his head up, to the side, barely hearing the popping joints over the rush of his heartbeat, a flood of heat heading straight to his dick when the whole uniform moved against him.

His mouth was open. Ray focused on himself, on that part of his reflection, panting and holding as still as best as he could. His tongue was sticking out, just a little, pink and wet like his lips, like maybe he really wanted to lick something. His hand, the buttons, maybe even the fucking sink, and yeah, because the porcelain would be cool, almost sweet, and then it was easy as pie to imagine himself bending over and dragging his tongue around the faucet.

He shifted, grunting softly when it pulled the breeches tighter, snug and firm around his crotch. He still couldn’t see his hands, not in the mirror, but they weren’t moving, not yet. Because what kind of freak would get off on licking the faucet, only Fraser, and Ray was not Fraser, even if he wondered, was wondering, about Fraser now.

His eyes flicked up, back up the strange image of himself with flat hair and steady eyes, and he swallowed. Fraser had been in here before, Fraser could have done it, could have leaned over and stuck out that tongue and that was something else Ray didn’t know.

His hands were wet on the sink’s edge before Ray’d had time to realize he was leaning too, spreading his legs a little to better reach and maybe he was stretching too, arching his back a bit when he didn’t have to, like some kind of mud-wrestling bikini babe. Because that slick fabric was riding up to curve and rub across his balls, along his ass, like fingertips but Stella had never done that. A new feeling that felt just right, and that was weird, but his tongue was out anyway, and he closed his eyes to taste sharply metallic water right from the dripping faucet, pushing a little against the fine mesh for more. Another swipe and the porcelain was as sweet as he’d thought, minty with toothpaste, and Fraser might have thought so too, if he’d been here.

If he’d been here, and Ray swallowed the trickle of water, warm in his mouth. He didn’t want to know what Fraser would have thought if he’d been here, seeing the body in the uniform here, bent over, mouth open. Only Fraser wouldn’t have been the one in the uniform, so maybe for once Ray would have been able to tell _exactly_ what Fraser was thinking. Exactly what he was _thinking_ about _doing_ , even if he wouldn’t do it.

Ray shivered, opening his eyes but staying still, because if anything, Fraser would come up behind him and talk close. Real close, always talking close and low like he had something real important to say to Ray and only Ray, only once he’d said his weirdo, kinky peace he’d move away, run out the door, run across the room to jump into a mud pit and just leave Ray standing there, shivering and hard and…

Ray pushed his hips forward, jerking at the cold pressure, his dick full and throbbing while he kept it trapped there, trying to breathe. Fraser was some kind of sicko freak to torture himself like this everyday. He probably felt this burn and still kept it slow at night, leaving Ray with his quiet _“Good night, Ray”s_ and then going up to his little cot and sliding off the uniform, piece by piece. Boots, placed side by side at the door. Hat, set on the desk. Lanyard, curled around his trembling fingers as he started work on the Sam Browne. Then the pants. The fucking coat. The shirt. Skin. Fraser’s skin, hot after hours of waiting.

For a guy outdoors all the time, Fraser’s skin was pale, white and pink, smooth like a girl’s, his arms and hands dark with some splattered mud. Ray tossed his head at the memory, the curve of Fraser’s back, but didn’t move, hard-on trapped against the sink. He spread his fingers, knocking over a can of something, shaving cream maybe, he could smell it now.

Fraser smelled like soap mostly, not bothering with colognes. A simple guy, his Frase.

So maybe he ran up those steps, not slow at all, staring politely after Ray’s car driving away and then bolting up the stairs to his room, to rip at his fly, twisting open buttons and sliding his hand inside without even sliding off the holster first. Maybe he’d lick his fingers before, and after, and that was real weird, but Fraser would, each and every time, Ray just knew it all of the sudden. He’d just curl his curious, pink little tongue around all of his fingers and then wrap his hand firmly around his dick, maybe squeezing his eyes closed and stroking hard and fast, imagining something as hot and smooth as all the skin he’d bared to Ray in that bathroom.

Frannie’s bare stomach, warm creamy skin just begging a guy to put his mouth there, yeah, Fraser might think about that. Ray shook his head and closed his eyes, inching forward, just a little, and the porcelain wasn’t so cold no more, but he could’ve kissed it for being there, something to push against, softly. Oh man, he could have _married_ the sink, just for fucking being there while he rolled his hips forward and thought about Fraser on his cot, legs open and head back and thinking about sex.

Fraser thought about sex. Fraser thought about sex _a lot_. Ray was grinning and panting at the same time and he didn’t care, because he’d figured something out just like Fraser would have, all ears and nose and tongue. Fraser had been hard looking at those girls grope each other in the mud.

Ray’s fingers tightened around the sink’s edge, his face stinging at the realization. Fraser had been hard and ready while he’d oiled up to go do his crazy exhilarating wrestling. Fraser had been hard right here in this bathroom. Ray could have bet on it, the picture came too easy.

Him yelling outside the door and Fraser inside here, trying not to move and then looking into the mirror, looking at himself and rubbing his thumb on his eyebrow, trying not think about anything, only it ain’t working, because nothing stops Fraser’s brain from working. And meanwhile he’s still hard, like really hard, dick-pounding, mouth-watering _hard_ , and maybe shoving against his hand a little bit and Ray’s just outside the door, on _the other side of the freaking door_ , waiting for him, maybe listening, trying to hear. And Fraser knows it.

 _“Oh my.”_ Two half-naked women rolling around in dirty mud and Fraser said that, said _“oh my”_ right into Ray’s ear, and touching him too, touching him on the arm with a stiff cock hidden safely under red serge. Leaning in, and what kind of guy leaned in with that going on in his pants? Leaning in to press into the back of another guy with the same problem, because Fraser would know Ray was hard too, and saying his name low and close, just for Ray and Ray alone. Like it was a fucking special treat, to hold there and wait, to think about that and know that Ray didn’t have a fucking clue, so he could keep on doing it.

Torture. The uniform was torture, and Fraser liked it. Fraser must freaking love it.

Ray gasped quietly, turning his face to rub his cheek on the cold metal of the faucet. This was wrong, and he still hadn’t moved his hands from the sink. He couldn’t. Fraser wouldn’t. Fraser would hold on.

He closed his mouth and opened his eyes, seeing the pit again, the dim lights and the shadows of the crowd and those tight, furious bodies, wrapped up in sticking, sweet mud. Fraser was behind him, breathing hard, holding onto Ray, shaking and going on about competition like he didn’t know Ray was staring too, acting like he didn’t know Ray was all those Fraser-words for aroused and then some. Inhaling right under his ear, lips right _there_ , and maybe Fraser had smelled it on him, even with all the stink of the bar. Doing his fake-dumb Fraser thing. His voice had been scratched and rough but he’d still been talking, repeating his name, for him and him alone.

 _Ray._

“Yeah?” Ray grunted, jerking his chin up. His fingers were slipping on the sink, the edge wet. He sucked in air and frowned, trying to think, trying to focus. He was dizzy again, the bathroom too dark, dim, dusty lighting, and he could have been back swearing at that fucking mud for not helping him grab anything that would let him thrust up. And maybe Fraser really had wrestled in oily cage matches or something, because Fraser’s only problem had seemed to be Ray, kicking up a fuss underneath him. Fraser’s jaw had been clenched so hard it must’ve hurt, his eyes going everywhere but Ray’s face, his hands having no trouble holding on to anything, holding strong and forceful at Ray’s hips, like Ray was just going to let Fraser pin him down. He’d wanted _up_ , damn it. He’d wanted _in_.

His hands slid out from under him and Ray yanked himself up just before he smacked his head hard on the wall, putting a hand on the mirror to catch himself. He blinked in shock to see his hand clean, the red coat on, his jaw locked tight.

His fingers curled, because he’d squirmed and wriggled and worked himself right between Fraser’s thighs, following the heat like a fucking missile, arms flying everywhere until his fists had found Fraser’s jaw. And like it was nothing, they’d flattened without hurting anything, smoothed while Fraser’s lips had opened, and yeah, Fraser had been licking the mud off his fingers for a second there. Sucking it off, and _there weren’t any clues there, buddy,_ that’s what Ray should have said, but he hadn’t, and Fraser had kept going and Ray had let him, just watching and swearing and moaning and fuck that crowd anyway.

Ray’s eyes went up, and he should have been walking away or shaking his head, but he was breathing heavy and leaning into the mirror, into the red outline that could have been Fraser if he’d been further away and without his glasses. Still hard, still, that was rich, _always_ hard, dripping and twitching and making him go blind, and that meant something Ray couldn’t think of the word for, ending a shift and eating dinner and dropping Fraser off and then running up his steps, flying up those steps to thrust his dick against couch cushions, the carpet, the sheets if he was lucky. Not so weird anymore but it should have been, because his mouth wanted to open, was opening, and he went with it, licking a hot stripe across the mirror, swallowing the flat, glassy taste that wasn’t Fraser, and his hand was spread now, and his other hand was creeping off the sink, pulling at brass. Fuck the buttons.

Fraser’s hands were different. Quick, graceful, warm and slippery, yanking and ripping and so freaking strong. And Ray twisted, shuddering at the pool of mud splattered across his stomach, gross and weird and yeah, just right, and his head went back, into more mud but it didn’t matter because Fraser was dropping down, still cleaning Ray’s mud from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. The same sweet goop dripping from his hair, and Fraser’s eyes were wide, light looking down at Ray. Burning. Yeah.

But Fraser wasn’t going to just pin him like that, and Ray had jerked up, surprising Fraser because he’d jumped and Ray’s hands had been free, reaching up for fistfuls of soggy, red serge, and pulling, getting that weight off him long enough to slide up, jeans rubbing raw on his skin, and then filthy, needy, finger-sucking Fraser was underneath him, and Ray was laughing maybe, sounds coming out of his open mouth that had made Fraser close his eyes, whispering to the sky like he was praying, not saying what he was praying for.

Fraser wouldn’t, but Ray would. His hand worked past the buttons and the fucking boxers he hadn’t taken off and the first touch of his thumb to his leaking cock made him grunt and slam his palm against the mirror, once, twice, again. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

“ _Fuck_ yeah, Fraser.” Fraser might frown like a librarian, but he wasn’t stopping him. Wasn’t doing anything but bucking up, letting Ray keep him pinned, letting Ray thrust down between his thighs. Ray was squeezing hard on his prick, hard like his legs closing around Fraser, like Fraser twitching and hot underneath him, eyes closed and gasping and wrestling meant nothing now, with Ray. For Ray he just laid there and took it.

Dirty fucking serge, wet and heavy and in the fucking way. And dumb girls creeping at the edge of his vision, grabbing the perp and yelling and still he’d been twisting, jerking forward and fuck the sink because it wasn’t Fraser. Cold stone when Fraser was hot and giving pink. Fuck his hand too, it wasn’t as hard, wasn’t as firm as that ridge in dumb blue-and-yellow pants, jumping against his palm, and so what if it was stroking now, it still wasn’t jerking back into him, gripping his arms and saying his name. Begging. Fucking begging. Serge didn’t hide nothing when it was flattened with mud, and Christ, Fraser had wanted it. Begging for it in a room full of watching assholes, hottest chicks in the world inches away and he’d been crying out for Ray.

“Yeah, buddy, yeah.” Ray could feel his own breath on his cheeks, forming steam on the mirror. He closed his eyes so hard he saw stars, his hand damp and hot and firm, and he was close. So freaking close, and he only wanted to lean in. “Fraser.” Mud was streaked across Fraser’s cheekbone; smooth skin, red lips, filthy, sticky mud. Ray had put it there, wanted to kiss it away, open-mouthed, hot, dragging his tongue all over the place, everywhere, around the fucking world of Fraser, had tightened his grip on his dick instead, turning his face partly away, from the glass, from how Fraser’s had never left him, waiting for it. “Christ, I want…”

With his eyes open he could see the blurry reflection of the red, the shape of a shoulder practically behind him, and yeah, he’d grabbed there too, those broad shoulders, knees sliding out from under him, trying to force him down on top of the wriggling cock-tease beneath him, Fraser who was just about crying for it, _Please, Ray, please,_ . Only Fraser was suddenly moving, pushing him away with round, frightened eyes when Ray didn’t move, when the bodies next to them forced their way into his vision. Not saying Ray’s name anymore, but yelling bullshit about suspects getting away. Chasing bad guys and doing his duty and back to business like this never happened, only now, right freaking now, this time for Ray, he doesn’t. Now, Ray won’t let him.

Ray’s shoving him hard back into the mud and spreading out on top of him, and Fraser’s pulling at Ray’s shirt and then maybe his own, and the coat is gaping now, buttons torn open, shirt up so Ray can finger pink nipples, snapping suspenders so taut that it stings and his face burns but that doesn’t matter. He’s just wet fingertips, hot and sweet, lips buzzing, hovering over Fraser’s mouth. And he’s maybe moaning at what he’s seeing, at Fraser’s tongue, darting out because Fraser wants to lick, before he’s shoving his hand back down in his pants, in Fraser’s _pants_ , grabbing Fraser’s _dick_ because Fraser won’t but Ray don’t give a fuck, not when he could have this, when Fraser is _his_. His for the taking, for the fucking, and he’s coming before he can finish the thought, coming buckets, oceans, swearing through his teeth and shouting, _Yeah, Fraser, yeah_ to answer every _please_ that slips out of Fraser’s mouth, ropes of come into his palm, shooting between his fingers, all over the bottom of the coat.

There are stars and the air is dark, and beyond that all Ray can see is a bunch of red.

What had to be a long time later, Ray felt himself twitch, his chest expanding and sinking, trying to breathe, trying not to because _holy shit_.

The glass was warm against his face, wet, and Ray frowned a little, knowing he was sagging against it, awkward over the sink, his body on fire. He twitched again, thumbing his dick a little and flinching at the slight pain. He was still maybe clutching the mirror, and he dropped his hand, heavy at his side. The other he left just where it was, a sticky, dirty weight in his pants. In Fraser’s pants.

Ray blinked, darting his tongue to the side of his mouth before jerking up to stand alone. He glanced toward his reflection and flinched worse than before. The coat was crooked, opened from his chest down, his t-shirt stained and sticking out over the gaping fly of the pants. All of it wet, splattered and warm. He slid his hand up, watched it slide free of Fraser’s breeches and paint his stomach.

The air smelled hot and thick, musky like spunk, and it would taste the same, Ray thought with a frown, dizzy and almost blind. He met his eyes in the mirror, then slowly brought his hand up, touching his tongue to his palm. It was bitter and sweet, like beer, coffee with chocolate, weird, and still Fraser would have, so Ray watched himself, never blinking while he sucked each finger clean, watching himself lick his jizz off his hand and pretend it wasn’t his.

He swallowed, and put that hand back down on the porcelain.

This was not stir-crazy. This was not buddies. This…this was not what buddies did. And anybody else would have known that before they’d put on the coat. Hell, they wouldn’t have put it on at all. And they damn sure wouldn’t have run to their bathroom and licked faucets and jacked it and moaned Fraser’s name with every stroke.

He couldn’t breathe. Ray brought his other hand up to tug at the collar and then froze. He ought to just take it off. Take the whole thing off and damn, he was going to have to call Ma Vecchio again but there was no way he could explain these stains to her, he shouldn’t even be thinking about her now, Christ, and there was no fucking way he was going to let Fraser find them, because Ray thought a lot of crazy things, even when he wasn’t horny and jerking off, it didn’t make none of them true. He could just ask her how to clean that goddamn thing, scrub it in the sink himself if he had to. Bleach. Soap. Whatever it took.

Not bleach. Ray licked along the inside of his teeth, tasting bittersweet, wishing he had another beer. Fraser with his eyes, with that nose, smelling everything, wondering why anyone would clean off mud with bleach. He’d take the clothes from Ray and then turn and then stop, head tilted, frowning a little, and Ray could just see it, the way he’d duck his head and close his eyes and take a good sniff. And then, then he’d look up and into Ray’s eyes and he’d know. He’d freaking know exactly what Ray had done, maybe what he was thinking about doing again. And he’d know what Ray was thinking about, during…

Christ. Ray knew crazy when he saw it, and it was looking back at him in a borrowed clown suit right now. And he had at least five more days of this, stuck in the apartment with this. What the hell was Fraser going to say when he came home, happy and relaxed after weeks without Ray, doing his dumb Mr. Oblivious thing, acting like he didn’t even know what mud was and then coming home to find Ray had…in the Uniform.

 _Oh my_. Ray heard, and it wasn’t the fucking turtle, and Fraser still wasn’t here, but he might as well have been, standing in the bathroom door looking at Ray wearing his uniform. _Oh my_. May as well been leaning into Ray’s back, lips against his ear. Only it was all backwards, because he wasn’t wearing the serge now, Ray was, so maybe when Fraser would go to lift his arm and rub at his eyebrow, he’d freeze, because there was nothing to stop him now, no restraints. Maybe he’d shrug and drop his shoulders and run his hands through his hair and smile.

 _That will stain, Ray, if we don’t wash it soon._ Calm as can be. Easy as freaking pie. And maybe in a sweater, in a t-shirt with no buttons, he’d smile, because—Ray realized suddenly, blinking—this was a guy who had sucked mud off Ray’s fingers in front of about fifty screaming jerks, and that one…that one maybe had not been in Ray’s head.

 _It would be better if you removed it, Ray.._

Fraser-voice was all kinds of low and suggestive, and maybe just as full of kinky shit as the real Fraser.

Ray scratched his head, stirring up his hair and scowling at his reflection. Fraser needed to get his ass back down here, A.S.A.F.P. and save Ray already, because Ray needed, wanted, to ask what the _fuck_ , and… Or maybe he ought to spend some more time up there, away, and just not be here to sniff, and taste, and know things. Maybe however many hundreds of thousands of seconds it had been since Fraser had gone was just long enough for Ray to figure out what he was supposed to be figuring out here, but not what he was supposed to do with it. Maybe Fraser had nothing on Ray when it came to acting fake-dumb.

Ray’s eyes opened wide, watching himself put his fingers on the last few buttons still done up, because he had five more days of that, of _this_ , and…it was a good fit. Fraser with his buttons done all the way to the top to stop him from doing just what Ray had done, and Ray really had failed at that one. It wasn’t like he knew Fraser any better now.

He touched a finger to one brass button for a second and then tore it away. Like doing up the buttons now was going to hide that he had a come-stained uniform and visions of naked Fraser to thank for it.

His eyebrow itched. Ray scratched at it with his thumbnail and then jerked his hand away, scowling, because somebody was laughing at him, and he knew for a definite freaking _fact_ that he was alone here.

Maybe.


End file.
